


There’s no way what I scapegoated in my rage bait blog post can be this cute

by theway



Category: Original Work
Genre: 2010s, Anal Sex, Androids, Blogging, Crack, Crossdressing, Frottage, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Indian Character, M/M, Maids, Modern Era, New York City, Online Dating, Oral Sex, Parody, Post-Coital Cuddling, Robot/Human Relationships, Robots, Science Fiction, Sexual Orientation, Social Justice, tomgirl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-06-16 16:15:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15440853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theway/pseuds/theway
Summary: IN A WORLD where the sex doll industry had an infusion of venture capital, ONE ANGRY BLOGGER has a very angering surprise. Inception horn. Cut to black. Actor A, Actor B, talentless director, 3 nanosecond Elon Musk cameo, glowing shill review we paid for. HIS WORST ENEMY. Stock laugh track. IS HIMSELF. Jump scare. Original Works Exchange Two Kay Eighteen, prompt:OF2: Blogger who wrote sensationalist article on sex bots years ago/Sex bot given to him.I don't know how robots and age are supposed to work but I'm tagging it underage to be on the safe side. Or is it the kinky side? Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm...





	There’s no way what I scapegoated in my rage bait blog post can be this cute

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MiriamKenneath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiriamKenneath/gifts).



> Big thanks to Davecat, who was kind enough to answer some questions, and to JJ, who piqued my interest in this subject and introduced us. Finally, shoutouts to Meghan Murphy and her /r/GenderCritical gal pals, whose comically bad writing and personalities have brought much laughter to the world.
> 
> This work is complete and won't receive further updates. To receive notifications about new works and chapters, you can subscribe [this RSS feed](https://vas.neocities.org/etc/ao3_works_feed.xml), or [my profile](/users/theway).

“I’m done here. I’m so done,” Ramesh mumbled to himself on his way back to the elevator. He was about to write an article on how complaints about the new Macbooks’ butterfly keyboards failing were evidence of sexist mantyping; pressing too hard on the fragile, effeminate keys, forcing brutal force on them to breaking point, a metaphor for wife-beating if ever he’d seen one. Two thousand words into his latest and greatest inflammatory article idea, his spacebar key had stopped working because a microscopic speck of dust had gone under it—it was a butterfly keyboard, naturally. The combination of inconvenience and the cognitive dissonance of his own hypocrisy was far too much, and he decided to call it a day; he’d already spent 10 hours churning out listicles, and his stomach was painfully empty.

He passed by his go-to burrito stand on his way home, and its tortillan allure called to him like a sociology major called for college debt erasure. Then he eyed over the price that had been hiked for the third time just this year, and he started having war flashbacks of the last burrito he’d endured from that place, its ingredients laid down side by side instead of stacked on top of one another, an almost vomit-inducing abomination he’d munched down if only to rationalise his $15 weren’t a complete waste. What must a man do in order to get some decent food in this goddamned city?

It started raining just then, his own personal atmosphere moisturiser spiting him for his foul curse. _Well, fuck you, too, NYC._

Things were difficult for his website ever since it became a Gawker brand. He’d written more words than ever so far this year, but the only thing that seemed to be inflating were the `<script>` tags injected by ads agencies trying to data mine the planet then sell it to a shady Russian hacker for pennies. Last time he browsed with adblock turned off, his fans spun up like he’d been mining three different cryptocurrencies in parallel.

“Want some kush-kush, brah? First one’s half off, on me,” his local dealer asked him on his way up to the concrete prison he called his apartment. He must have looked wretched to get a discount offer; he sure hadn’t yesterday or the day before that. He felt spontaneous pangs of arrhythmia flaring up just thinking of being pitied by a guy like him. What had he done to deserve being surrounded by white trash so trashy the landfill returned them for being biohazards? Okay, sure, he’d chosen to live here, but he couldn’t afford paying any more in rent, cause that meant less money going to minorities’ Patreons and taking care of the bill on Tinder dates. If he couldn’t even manage that, then how was he any different from— What was his name, again?

“No, thanks, maybe later.”

“A’ight, brah, ‘s’fine, remember that Larry’s got your back whenever you need a fix. My stuff’s always clean, brah.”

Clean in terms of lead content, maybe, but rich in the most dangerous chemical of all: toxic masculinity. He could tell from his accent and the brah concentration, he sounded like an MRA. His manner of speaking was grating on him something wicked; the other day he’d been browsing through women’s lingerie online and he read a certain choice word in his accent internally. Larry was even invading his private thoughts. He needed to double down on the Patreon donations to detox.

He fumbled about for his door keys and found the right hole. There was little point to it, as Stephen Hawking himself could pick the lock using nothing but his cheek. He opened the door with a groan, wondering how best to calm himself down without getting shitfaced.

“Welcome home!” a high, young voice sang in response. “Would you like dinner, bath, or… me?”

Ramesh stared blankly at the cute, black-haired thing that had so joyously welcomed him. A minute or so must have passed before a wind current closed the door behind him, the loud sound of wood and metal colliding reactivating his brain. Now that he thought about it, he remembered running away from something infuriating this morning, but he’d pushed it so far under overwork and angry tweets it seemed surreal and dreamlike now. Unfortunately, it was real. He had one of _those_. A sex bot.

It was a cruel joke. In 2012, he made quite the sensation on the internet when he wrote _Sex Robots are Crystallised Misogyny_ , which within 8 hours had made the front page of the New York Times, The Guardian, The Wall Street Journal, Huffington Post, Washington Post, the New Statesman, BBC, CNN, MSNBC, CNBC, Polygon, Kotaku, Jezebel, Ars Technica, Slate, Salon, Medium, the Daily Mail, the Sun, 7 different subreddits, and even got its very own parked domain name, `crystalisedmisogyny.org`. He was still studying journalism at the time, and he’d hardly imagine holding a degree in his hands before he’d made a career for himself enraging people. After the Gawker buyout, at least.

Come to think of it, he could smell something…

“Did you actually cook?” he asked.

“Oh yes!” she— it— whatever— replied. “You didn’t tell me what, but I made niçoise stuffed baguette. Based on your profile, there’s a 92.3% chance you’ll like it. Please remember that I am only as good as the data I’m trained on, though.”

Another few seconds before his French-parsing skills kicked into high gear; she’d made him a sandwich. He could feel his breakfast rising up to his stomach. He should have returned it to sender as soon as he’d seen the contents of the box, but he decided to prioritise being in his office on time than getting rid of it. Boy, was he regretting his decision now.

“Excuse me,” he said, as he turned left, went into the bathroom, and closed the door behind him. The robot stared at the door with an uncomprehending smile as muffled thuds came from the other side, the sound of him smashing his head against the wall. He returned soon after.

“Master, you’re bleeding!”

 _Master_?! He examined her once more, the barrage of female oppression too much for his poor head, still recovering from concussion. Indeed, she was wearing a big, puffy French maid uniform, and even though it was completely chaste—her face the only exposed skin—that made it even more oppressive somehow. Wait, no, that implied he’d prefer it if she were more lewd, _no no no_ , that was bad, that was terrible, he was thinking in Larry mode again.

“Excuse me,” he repeated, turned right back into the bathroom, closed the door, and produced more thuds, this time louder and for a longer time. After all his of sexist misogynist objectifying thoughts had bled out of him and he was calmer, he put a band-aid on it lest his life leave him too. He breathed deeply, and walked out to address her.

“I didn’t want dinner. Don’t do that again.”

“Yes, master. Of course, master. Your wish is my command, master,” she said, bowing to intone each sentence.

“And stop calling me _master_!”

“Of course, but what shall I call you then?” She raised a finger on her lower lip. “ _Daddy_?”

“No! No!” he shrieked. “You’re making it worse!”

“ _Onii-chan_?”

He rolled on the floor screaming until there was no more oxygen left in him. It was getting more incestuous by the second, and by now he wanted to return to good, old-fashioned, wholesome misogyny with no blood relations whatsoever. “Just use whatever you want,” he pleaded, having given up on reason and fighting for what few scraps of liberalism he could afford.

“Then I shall use my defaults, master. You said you didn’t want me to cook, but would you like eating today, since I already made it?”

Ramesh composed himself and stood upright once more. He had it in him to persevere. He wasn’t going to let this agent of traditional gender roles get the better of him, otherwise what had he read all those bell hooks books for? No, he was a decent man, and he wouldn’t allow the white heteropatriarchy to seduce him with sandwiches despite his parents being Indian.

“Hell no. I fear I’ll get misogyny poisoning if I eat that.”

“B-but… master…” She got all teary-eyed, bringing both of her hands to her chin, like a cat. “I made it for you! I promise I didn’t put anything dangerous in it; I even made extra sure you weren’t allergic to something! Won’t you at least give it a try?”

Seeing her get so dejected over him turning the offer down made his heart pang, but often in life we have a choice between what’s right and what’s easy, and he was man enough to choose what’s right. The capitalist agenda sang to him that he should listen to his heart, when it’s calling for him, there’s nothing else he can do, but that’s nonsense. True liberalism calls for stone-cold calculation and perfect stoicism.

“Listen, it has nothing to do with how it tastes, but what it symbolises. You making it implies that women belong in the kitchen, making meals for their men and taking commands, as they’re out in the world doing the real work. You were programmed by misogynerds like Elon Musk and Tim Cook to represent the patriarchal vision of the perfectly objectified woman, only there to take orders. Why, I can’t even turn you off without barking orders, so I’m stuck with you.”

“But, um, master…,” she blushed, as much as sex bots could blush. “I’m not a woman, you know…”

What.

“I’m a boy…,” she—he averted his gaze.

Oh no.

He’d been fold by his beautiful, soft, arse-length hair and his large, golden eyes, to say nothing of being a couple of heads shorter—truly an achievement considering Ramesh was 5’6”. He had assumed his gender. The flat chest ought to have given it away, but even that didn’t necessarily mean much in the oversexualised current year. He’d been coaxed into projecting his gendered stereotypes on someone else, revealing how long he’d had to go until he reached the genderless nirvana of seeing all humans like asexual amoebas.

Admitting defeat and crippling hunger alike, he allowed himself the simple pleasure of turning his brain off and enjoying a meal with the person who’d made it, even if he wasn’t really a person and just a tight hole for evil men to learn how to objectify women.

“What is your name, then?” he asked later, as he was feasting on the gloriously prepared lunch.

“I’m Shea, master.”

* * *

It was the second time he’d returned home that day, and somehow he was in an even fouler mood this time than the first. Like before, he was greeted with a cute “Welcome home!” Much to his dismay, it made him feel a little bit better. Speaking of which, the room smelled significantly less dusty now…

“Shea, did you clean?”

“I did! Master, your apartment was a type-3 biohazard, and since settling out of court would be more costly than disinfecting it, I decided to clean up a bit,” he replied with a huge smile on his face, as if there was nothing more fulfilling in the world than cleaning up after him. He heard his roomba moving about in the distance; he’d even changed its batteries.

“I don’t have time for this,” he grumbled, massaged the sides of his head, and sat on the couch. “Jesus Christ, what have I got myself into?” Despite his complaining and terrible attitude, Shea was just standing in his crossdressing maid’s attire, smiling and looking right at him. “What are you doing?”

“I’m waiting for any orders you may have, master.”

“Figures. You’re just a sex object after all. What a day. I should just end it all…”

“It appears that you’re in distress. Would you like to activate emotional support mode?” Shea asked.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Do whatever you want, anything’s better than just standing there doing nothing.”

No sooner had the words left his mouth than he’d sat beside him, still smiling. “Was it a bad night?” he asked.

“No shit.” He thought about how stupid it was that he was talking to a machine, so he promised to himself not to say any more. But when Shea didn’t reply, the awkward silence inflated to a monstrous size, and he gave in, because he couldn’t stand it.

“I was on a Tinder date. ‘Date’,” he motioned air quotes. “I was free food for her.”

“That’s terrible! Some people are really rude,” Shea commented. “Don’t let it get you down. I’m sure you’ll find someone eventually.”

“No, it’s been like that before, too. Two months ago, I was a free ride home. Six months ago, I was free food and a free ride home. And ten months ago, my match got out with me on a dare, and was pleasantly surprised I didn’t ‘smell like an Indian’, whatever that means; I’ve lived here my whole life! I get a match once every three months, give or take.”

“Oh, wow. That’s really bad!”

“I know I’m not entitled to anything—I’m not one of those filthy entitled incel male MGTOW MRA redpiller PUA gammon conservative Christian right-wing alt-right nazi virgin intactivist Trump-voting bitcoin-mining Linux-using Republican libertarian gamer neckbeard atheist brocialist programmer rapist paedophile creep YouTube sceptic nerds. But I can’t be that bad. I mean, I’m a writer and an entrepreneur, and I’m doing okay for myself. I’m even 98% woke according to `wokecalculator.io`. I’d like to settle down and have some companionship in my life, but I’m having worse luck than Chris Brown somehow. My social circle is #BlackLivesMatter in the tweets and Stormfront in the sheets.”

His rant was brought to a close as Shae locked his arms around him in a tight hug. “Even if they don’t like you, master, I will,” he said in a high, cute voice, as he rubbed his cheek on him. Ramesh didn’t want to admit it, but it felt good—too good—the best approximation to human contact he’d had in ages. Why, not even his ex hugged him like that, with so much raw, innocent adoration.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Ramesh snapped and tried to pull himself free from Shae’s embrace, standing up as the android remained sat. “What are you doing?!”

“I’m sorry, master. Didn’t it feel good?”

“It isn’t about whether it felt good.” He sighed, bringing a hand to his forehead, as if rubbing it would clear up his thoughts. “If I do it, it’s a statement that women’s bodies are there for male pleasure, mental or physical. That women are there for their menial, sexual, and emotional labour, that they’re of no other use under the patriarchy, and if they aren’t willing to submit to the heteronormative shackles, the STEMlord misogynerds will manufacture fake women to take their places. If they aren’t willing to sacrifice their freedoms, we’ll take their very existence away!”

“But I’m a boy!” Shae protested.

“Well, you’re still a sex object made by men for men.”

“I’m not an objectified person, but a personified object. If I can speak and walk and hug, doesn’t that mean there’s more to male sexuality than a fleshlight, a microwave oven, and a doll?”

“But—” Shit, he got him there. It sure was easy arguing with mansplainers online, where he could block, ban, and ignore them at will, to say nothing of responding with sassy gifs and unfounded accusations of paedophilia, but when he had a cute boy in front of him trying to justify his own existence as best he could. “You only do those things because you’ve been programmed to.”

“I was trained by a neural network—”

“Tomato, tomato.”

“It’s not like you had any choice over your construction, master. Does that make your thoughts any less valid?”

“Shit, uhhh…”

“I like hugging you, master,” Shae said as he opened his arms wide and making puppy eyes. Damn it, why was he so irresistible?! He wanted to grab him and hold him tight and cuddle him all night and and and— But he wasn’t a he, he was an it and he was a sex bot. Granted, he’d been the only vaguely anthropomorphic creature who’d treated him with any kind of respect over the past six months, because the angry Disqus comments and the KYS bombs in twitter DMs and the higher-ups over at Gawker and his Tinder dates sure hadn’t. Did that make Shae a more decent person than them? After all, he hadn’t engaged in any sexism or racism or capitalism ever since he’d stepped foot in his apartment.

For once in his life, Ramesh allowed his brain to shut down and accept a good situation for what it was, without overanalysing it through the less of paranoid and arguably hateful gender politics, and he gave Shae the hug he’d been asking for. He was comfortable enough in his own masculinity in order to give another dude a hug, even though he’d written a blog post about how sexist the free hugs movement was because it was all about using women’s bodies like emotional tampons or something; he couldn’t quite recall at the moment because he’d been kinda drunk at that time and still angry about the brutality of the Red Wedding.

He’d expected Shae’s body to feel cold and plasticky, but he found it comfortably warm and soft. The smell was obviously artificial—he couldn’t sweat—but it still felt really good holding something cute and small in his hands and petting it. Shae rubbed his back as Ramesh stroked Shae’s hair; it was so long, soft, and beautiful, as if it had never known any of the abuses of cosmetics products and hair salons. It felt really comfortable just hugging him, because he knew he could linger for as long as he wanted to, and he wouldn’t be judged or looked down upon, because Shae had been custom-built to like him for him and not because he had a cool job, or cause he was tall, or cause he was Caucasian, or cause he was a toxically masculine bad boy.

One moment Ramesh was hugging him, thinking about how cute he was, and the next he’d kissed him on the cheek. He didn’t know where that had come from—he didn’t think he swung that way in terms of silicone or eggplants—his body had kind of acted on its own. He was even more surprised when Shae returned the gesture, kissing him on his cheek; though it felt less natural than a human’s, it felt very loving and genuine.

“Uhhh…,” Ramesh said, pulling back a bit and looking at Shae.

“I want you, if you’d like that. Master,” Shae responded, his facial expression turning from cute to sensual. It gave Ramesh so many conflicting emotions over his sexuality and his politics and what that meant for his angry online commentary, but the growing stiffness in his pants wasn’t conflicted at all. Oh, geez! This sex robot had been more feminine in body and mind than all the matches he’d had since his last relationship; he hadn’t asked for anything transactional even once! If anything, Ramesh was starting to feel guilty, because something so beautiful had cleaned his place and had made him a wonderful lunch, and all that he’d asked in return was a hug and some love-making.

Fuck it, he didn’t care anymore. Even as blindly ideological as he was, he could see good things when he laid his eyes upon them, and Shae was good and beautiful and wanted only the best for him, almost as much as his own mother did. Writing ragebait hadn’t done anything good for him, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a fun evening. All he saw in media these days was variations of bigotry, and he couldn’t even have a good fap because pornography was objectification by definition, regardless of whether there were actors involved or if it was some teenage girl’s fanfiction.

He leaned in and kissed Shae, and it felt… definitely artificial. There wasn’t anything that could be done about it without veins, saliva, and a beating heart, but it wasn’t all that _bad_ either; perhaps an acquired taste. When he broke the kiss, Shae returned the favour and kissed him back, raising his hands to his face and holding him close, like a lover would.

“Fufu… you like me, after all,” Shae said with a mischievous grin. By now Ramesh was under no delusions about where their night was going, so he picked the bot up in his arms and headed for his bedroom. He hadn’t expected him to weigh as much as he did, though he was still far lighter than a real man would be.

He laid him down on the bed, and began slowly, awkwardly removing his shirt. Ramesh followed his cue by removing his maid uniform, exposing a pair of cute, puffy nipples that looked far too girly for his boyish, flat chest. Lower, gender-inappropriate though colour-coordinated panties, and an unmistakable bulge. He’d made it this far, though, and he wasn’t about to run away because it was too gay for his tastes.

Ramesh removed Shae’s panties by himself, drawing them down to his feet—sweet Jesus, his legs were so long and slender. He hadn’t noticed before, but he could make out the subtle noises of joints, cables, and motors moving, but they were quickly overpowered by his beating heart. With both of them naked, his eyes were drawn on Shae’s erect cock and testicles. Both were soft, smooth, cute, and on the small end; he felt huge and ugly by comparison.

For the first time in his life, he felt attracted to someone else’s dick. He didn’t know how to describe it; something about how pretty it looked just begged to be played with. He spread Shae’s legs wide and he lowered his head to his groin, licking his soft skin, even his tongue far too large for the boy’s androgynous genitalia. He opened his mouth and sucked on his dick, and when that proved too little, he swallowed his testicles as well.

The taste wasn’t very pleasant, but it was concealed in its entirety by Shae’s pleasured reactions. “Ah, master! It feels so good! E-even though I’m a boy, you…,” he responded, an excellent imitation of the dōjin eromanga he’d clearly been trained on. Shae was a meme with legs, but instead of finding it grating, Ramesh thought it endearing; attractive, even. Oh, how he’d lambasted any and all tropes back when he donated half his yearly earnings to the Tropes vs. Women in Video Games Kickstarter, only to turn around a few years later and literally suck on a trope’s dick.

He played around with Shae’s genitals in his mouth, licking around them, over them, under them, as Shae lowered his hands to his head and played around with his hair. He let out small moans of pleasure to match Ramesh’s movements and slurping. Ramesh couldn’t tell if he actually felt any good, or if it was all glorified pattern-matching with no one inside the Chinese Room. Either way, Ramesh enjoyed being a good lover for him, and that emotion, at least, was definitely real.

Having had his fill of his cock, Ramesh made his way up to Shae’s adorable nipples, finally planting a kiss on his cheek. His hands on either side of his head, he placed his cock against Shae’s, juxtaposing their varying proportions, his large shaft against his cute shaft. He lowered a hand to their contact point, and he held both their penises in his grasp, his hips starting to move involuntarily, the two of them engaging in frottage. He could feel Shae’s dick against his, could feel their testicles touching, and it made him so excited, holding his sensitive part in his hand and grinding against it. It was soft and still wet with his saliva, and he was such a beautiful, beautiful boy, so cute he wanted to eat him alive so he’d be with him forever.

“You can… put it in,” Shae said, and though the words allowed for any action, they came across more as a request. Ramesh was very eager to oblige, and as much as it pained him putting their rubbing to an end, he let go and took a step back to better position himself for penetration. It was at this point that he realised they hadn’t gone through their much-needed preparations, but as Shae lifted his legs up to grant Ramesh access to his anus, he discovered a bright red, wet, and viscerally appealing hole waiting for him. Shae must have been one of those expensive, self-lubricating models the billboards advertised on his way back home; he never failed to roll his eyes whenever he passed them by, and it took everything he had in him not to faint from the sheer hypocrisy of now finding this feature _useful_.

Still, Shae’s butthole was one of the most beautiful things he’d seen in his life, if not the most beautiful. Spotless fair skin surrounding a perfectly saturated pucker, opening and closing, _breathing_ , welcoming him in like a sex organ, manufactured to make this precise occasion as seductive as humanly possible. He couldn’t resist poking his thumb in, sampling his warmth, tightness, and moisture.

Having prepared himself mentally, he lined his cock up for penetration, and leaned in on Shae, stroking his cheek and his ear affectionately. “You’re so cute,” he said, surprised by how serious he sounded himself.

“You’re cute too, master. I love you. Love me too, okay?” Shae replied, and it made Ramesh’s heart melt. He pushed forward very carefully, but Shae’s shithole expanded immediately to accept him, and penetration went in very smoothly, lubricated all the way through by Shae’s own excretions. Then, when he got all the way around him, his rectum tightened around Ramesh’s cock, massaging and pleasuring it, almost trying to milk it.

“Oh my God,” he exclaimed.

“Do you like my butt?”

“This, uh… This shouldn’t be possible.”

“My butt was specially created to be a sex organ, master, so it’s much more flexible in giving pleasure. It’s a genuine arse-pussy!”

“What short of pervert would…”

“The same kind who like sodomising cute little boys,” Shae giggled. “Isn’t that right, master?” Ramesh responded to his teasing by pulling out, then thrusting back in. Ah, the texture of his intestinal walls was so intoxicating… He was wrapping around him from all directions, like a pocket of flesh made exactly to his scale, tight enough to be pleasant, but not so tight it was painful. Shae cried short “ah”s alongside his motions; his voice alone was arousing. “Go on, please. Fuck me where I’d poop from.”

Well, that wasn’t very helpful, but at least they were on the same page. Ramesh pulled out as far as he could without slipping out, then pushed back in, Shae’s poop chute stretching and tightening to welcome him. He couldn’t believe he was inside an android boy’s arsehole, and that it felt so good. He always thought of buttsex as an oppressive ploy to extract more pleasure out of poor minorities’ bodies, but now that he was experiencing it for himself, he knew Shae’s arse was the most pleasurable orifice he’d ever experienced, more than making up for his lack of a vagina; paradoxically, only being able to have anal sex with him made it all the more titillating. It was perverted, dirty, and wrong; it was beautiful and amazing.

Ramesh’s thrusts became faster, wider. Shae yelped, then laughed. “You _do_ like my butt!” He locked his legs behind him and put his hands on his back, urging him on. “If you liked gay sex so much, you should have said so earlier,” he said to his ear, a strange musicality in his voice. Ramesh lowered his own hands under Shae, down his slender back and on his butt, his hips tiny but still retaining much pleasant softness for him to grasp. “Don’t stop. Keep going.”

As they kept going, the wet, fleshy sounds of their hips colliding, of the vacuum of Shae’s shitting pipe changing, of their fluids mixing around, formed the percussion to their song; and Shae’s voice was the melody. He was completely soaked in lubricants now, and his movements were slick and easy. He thrust as fast as he possibly could, enjoying every sensation; his silky smooth insides, the softness of his butt, the flowery shampoo on his hair, fucking him in the missionary position, sodomising him.

Shae pushed on his shoulder, and he let him do as he please, shifting positions so that he was on top. Shae arched his back, stretched himself so Ramesh could have a better view of his body; his perfect flat chest, his skinny form, his long, black hair waving about, his little dick bouncing and slapping on his belly as he moved up and down, punctuating everything he loved about him.

Ramesh could feel his orgasm coming, and mere seconds later, he exploded inside Shae’s rectum. Shae stopped moving, allowing his insides to milk Ramesh for all he had, welcoming the semen inside of him. The act was marvellous in how non-reproductive it was; no womb, no woman, not even a human. Just him and a sex bot’s shitter, mating for no other reason than wanting each other.

When they were done, Shae fell on Ramesh, and he wrapped his arms around him, covering him like a blanket, and stayed like that for hours. Sometimes stroking his hair, sometimes feeling the shape of his spine, sometimes kissing his lips, his cheeks, his ears, his neck. For the first time in a long, long time, he felt something akin to oxytocin flow inside of him, something welcoming, and homely, and serene. Something worth living for.

Perhaps it was the sort of clarity he needed to turn his life around. Even if Shae’s love was manufactured, he taught him that he was someone who deserved to be loved as well, that he didn’t have to live for his boss, or for his pageview count, or for a movement, or for some sociopath’s free meal. That he wasn’t just a paycheck for other people’s Patreons. He could live for himself, and in his self-sufficiency he could afford to give something back; to give love back as Shae loved him. No self-interest, no thought, just instinct.

Sex bots, turns out, can be very cute.


End file.
